Motivation
by BeccyTheChopper
Summary: Sherlock is jealous of John's girlfriends, he just doesn't know it yet.  WARNING: SLIGHT SPOILERS FOR SERIES 2 EPISODE 3!
1. What Do You See In Them?

**A/N: I don't want to go on, but this is my first fic… so, please, tell me what you think?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters *sigh*…**

**Thanks to some constructive criticism, and few ideas of my own, I have made some small edits.**

What Do You See In Them?

Sherlock sighed. Really, this was happening far too often lately. He'd be just sitting there, thinking, deducting, or trying to distract himself from doing so, and then… John. John Watson would invade his mind. His smell, the way his honey-coloured eyes danced when he laughed, or lit up when they had a case…

_So what are you going to do? Sit there and moon like a lovesick teenager?_ Sherlock laughed at his own ridiculousness. Yes, he cared for the doctor. But he wasn't sure… he didn't know exactly _what_ he felt. It's not like he's an expert on… emotions. He could certainly never remember feeling this strongly about… anyone. He had tried telling the skull his problems, but it wasn't particularly responsive. So he simply lay, sprawled across the sofa, glaring at those empty sockets.

This, of course, led him to think about John. About where John was, _right now._ He glanced at his watch. It was 10 O'clock. John had left roughly 1 hour, 58 minutes and 32 seconds ago. Only 2 hours 12 minutes and 27 seconds to go; if John was coming home tonight. What Sherlock didn't understand was what was so special about _her. _What it is about _her_ that makes _her_ deserving of John's time? John's attention. Ugh. He thinks that _the current one_ is called… Lucy? Linda? Something beginning with an 'L', anyway…

Every time John leaves, Sherlock finds himself with nothing to do. He _always_ ends up sprawled on the sofa, having a staring contest with the skull, or the ceiling. He _undoubtedly_ ends up with his thoughts on John. Then, he spies it. John's jumper. His favourite one. The soft, thick, beige one, that always makes Sherlock want to reach out and see if it is as _soft_ and _warm_ as it looks. And reach out he does. He plucks it from the back of the sofa, where Sherlock remembered him throwing it after they had returned home. It had been a particularly warm day, and they had chased a particularly fast criminal.

Sherlock also remembered _very clearly_, the way John's muscles had tensed and stretched, and how his thin T-Shirt had ridden up as he tugged the jumper off over his head. The small glimpse of John's skin had been burnt into Sherlock's brain, and it danced on his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

Sherlock remembered the look on John's face, a week ago, when he had limped into the flat, to find Sherlock sprawled across the couch, after having had _finally _tracked down the assassins that had been sent to kill his friends. He remembered how _hard_ he had tried, at first, to convince John that he wasn't a hallucination. He remembered how John had then turned, and flung his arms around Sherlock, and he remembered John's speech to his grave. Sherlock had not yet shared his miraculous return to the living with anyone else. John had said he wanted to make sure everything was okay, but what he really meant was _I want to make sure you're really here, really alive_. The danger was gone now, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and… _John_ were safe. The assassins had been… dealt with.

Sherlock could clearly remember the way John's arms had felt around him, anchoring him securely, and reassuring himself that Sherlock was _here_, and that he was _safe_, and _alive._ Then had come the anger, for what he had put him through. Since then, John had been a little distant. Still there, but… not. But it was okay, because Sherlock knew that John had every right to be upset with him. He had apologised profusely, but that hadn't stopped him from being wracked with guilt at causing John pain. _John. His best friend. The man he cared about most in the world. The man he lo-_

Stop.

Sherlock squashed that thought _right there_. He did not feel for John in that way. Nope. They were friends, good friends, _best _friends. But that was it. That. Was. _It._

Sherlock sighed. He glances down, to see that while he was thinking, he has moved. He is no longer simply clutching the jumper in his hand. Oh, no. Whilst lost in thought, Sherlock realized he had brought the jumper to his chest, clutching it tightly, clinging on to it like a lifeline. _What the hell…_ he thought, and did what he longed to do, deep down. He brought the jumper to his face, and inhaled. The scent of John; the scent of tea, London and a deep, spicy undertone that was _John, John, John._

Sherlock smiled, as he snuggled his face into the material and relaxed, glancing at the clock. He still had 1 hour, 17 minutes and 7 seconds before John would come back.

If he came back tonight.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of John, and he felt safe. He slowly began to relax.

The sound of John's key clunking in the lock jerked Sherlock awake. He checked the clock… 43 minutes and… 5 seconds early… why would he…?

Then, Sherlock realized he was still cuddled up to John's jumper. He flung the jumper back onto the back of the sofa… something about the footsteps wasn't right. At that moment, Sherlock cursed his sleep-fuddled mind. _Two sets._ Two sets of footsteps! John had brought _her_ home. He sprung from the sofa, and went into his own room, slamming the door just as John opened the door to the flat. Sherlock picked up his violin, and played out his feelings.

It started out as a jerky, angry tune, gently slipping into a calmer, more relaxed melody. Sighing, Sherlock went to go and check on John… he had to. Just as he was leaving the room, Sherlock caught sight of his face in the mirror.

And froze.

The pattern of John's cable-knit jumper was very clearly pressed onto the side of his face, now being wonderfully highlighted by the slight flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks. It would take ages to fade. He couldn't even look at John while he looked like this. Sighing, he threw himself down onto his bed…

About an hour later, John began to worry about Sherlock.

About an hour and a half after that, John had a fight with _her._ _She _left. Sherlock sighed. How could _she_ be so stupid? How could_ she_ be so blind to what _she_ had? _She _had John, John Watson, the one thing, the one _person_, that Sherlock Holmes wanted.

The one person he couldn't have.

Knowing that the marks on his face had now disappeared completely, Sherlock made his way into the living room, to find John slumped in his armchair, his face buried in his hands.

"John? Are you okay?"

"What does it bloody look like, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had known he would be upset, but he wasn't usually this snappy with Sherlock, unless…

"I'm sorry… that was a stupid question…"

John looked at him.

Sherlock was suddenly unsure of himself; even as the words fell softly from his lips.

"It was because of me, again, wasn't it?"

John just sighed, and buried his face in his palms again, and that was enough of an answer for Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John…"

John looked at him, startled by the apology. Something in his eyes changed, and he looked down at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock was confused. What had he done wrong? He ran the conversation back through his head, but he couldn't figure out what had suddenly made his doctor so cold to him.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, and then he got up to leave.

"Why does it matter so much, John?"

Sherlock surprised himself. He never meant to voice his question out loud.

John froze.

"What?"

"Why does it matter so much? Why do _they_ matter so much? What do you want from them that is so important, that you waste your time and effort on _them_ when you deserve so… much…more…?

This had all burst out of Sherlock in rather a hurry, and his words had trailed off at the expression on John's face.

"Not good?"

John laughed, humourlessly.

"Bit not good, yeah."

"Sorry… I just… you get so cut up, every time, and I just… they're not worth your time… they're not worth _you_!"

John sighed, and shook his head.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He went up to his room. Apparently, that was the end of the discussion. So Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, yet again, and he thought about John. He could think about John all night, and he often did. There was an entire wing of his Mind Palace dedicated to John, the way he smiles, the sound of his laugh, the _exact_ colour of his eyes, the look on his face when they run through the streets of London together, how he looked standing at Sherlock's grave…

So, Sherlock decided to put his mind to good use, and solve the problem of John's girlfriends.

By the time dawn breaks, and light begins to filter uncertainly through the window, Sherlock has a plan…

**So, what did you think? Opinions, please?**

**I hope I wasn't too OOC, but getting Sherlock right is quite hard…**

**The next chapter shouldn't be too long; I have plenty of ideas…**


	2. A Problem For Even The Greatest Mind

**A/N: So, here it is… chapter 2… enjoy! Sorry, but I have had a dreadful case of writers block. Thanks to Becka for the help!**

**Also, thank you to all the lovely people who reviewed. You guys made my day!**

***I realised that the issue of homosexuality raised in this could be taken offensively. I want to say that the views mentioned here are, in a certain Doctor Watson's case, similar to my own. I dislike homophobia, and I believe that someone is in love with who they are in love with. I don't mean this to be offensive, and refuse to try and inflict anybody else's views. I just love the idea of John sticking up for his best friend.***

**Disclaimer: These lovely characters are not mine. If they were, I would never let them go!**

**WARNING: Anderson.**

A Problem for Even the Greatest Mind

Sherlock stayed collapsed on the sofa and considered his plan. The first bit didn't need any input from Sherlock at all. After all, John's chances with the current girl were now in tatters. So, he would continue with normal life until another… interruption… came his way. Sherlock smiled, and snuggled back into the sofa. John was out shopping, so Sherlock had taken the chance to sneak one of his jumpers out if his room and it was currently curled against his chest. Sherlock sighed. The jumper was soft and warm, though it wasn't the beige one, and if he closed his eyes and let his mind wander, he felt almost as though John was there with him. He smiled. John, who had worked so hard to clear his name.

"Ugh. You're getting all sentimental!"

The imagined voice rang in his ears, as it so often did when he was alone. Moriarty. The man haunted him, even though he was dead. Sherlock growled. He would never be able to make that man pay for threatening John! He sighed, and flipped over on the sofa dramatically, frowning when he realized that John wasn't there to react.

He talked to John, sometimes. When he wasn't there. He pretended it was because he didn't notice, didn't care. He didn't understand why John fell for it. After all, he _was_ Sherlock Holmes… it's not like you can get little things by him…

No, the real reason he spoke to John, regardless of his actual presence, was because it made him feel that John was still there, with him.

And that made everything better.

But he would always know, deep down, that John wasn't there. The 'conversation' was a lacklustre cover-up, for poorly-hidden desperation on Sherlock's part. Especially when most of the time, John was wasting his life away with these… _women_, an entirely avoidable occurrence.

These thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of the key clicking into the lock.

John.

John was back. Sherlock stuffed the sweater out of sight, and then lay back, in his thinking pose, so John would not see the exhilaration simmering beneath the surface.

Sherlock lay there, listening to John's footsteps on the stairs. He heard the hesitation at the door, the rustle of carrier bags (no argument with the machine this time), and the click of the key in the door of 221B.

"Hey. I'm back."

"John, you know I dislike it when you state the obvious."

"Sherlock, you know I dislike it when you sit there instead of helping me with the shopping, but I don't go on about it all the time."

Sherlock sighed heavily, then rose gracefully from the sofa and walked over to John, rolling his eyes, and taking the lightest bag. John stood there, stunned.

"Wh- Sherlock, are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Then why did you just-"

"It's what you're always asking me to do."

"Yeah, but you never actually _do_ it."

"Well, I'm BORED!"

"Then, this is a much better side-affect then shooting the walls."

"If you must know, I'm experimenting on people's reactions to me being _nice_ to them, starting with you. I may abandon the whole thing, because being nice is so dreadfully tedious."

While talking, Sherlock had put the bag on the counter, looked inside, turned back into the living room, and, at the word tedious, flung himself dramatically onto the sofa. He stared at John, noticing some worrying signs. His trousers weren't creased, though they had been when he had left, his hair showed obvious signs of being run through with his fingers, to neaten it up. Faint wafts of disgustingly floral perfume drifted from his clothing, as though he had been grabbed on the arm.

He had met a girl.

"When is it?"

"Sorry?"

"The date. When is it?"

"Umm… Tuesday."

Sherlock thought about this. He decided to leave his plan for now. No point messing it up, before it even gets serious. So, if they have a second date, he would consider putting his plan into action then. If they had a third, then it was definite. But until then, he wanted something to do. He _needed_ something to do. He and John would go down the Yard. The expressions on the faces of the blithering idiots down there would last Sherlock for at least a day, and maybe Lestrade would have a case…

Sherlock stood.

"Come on, John."

"Where are we going?"

"First, we are going to have a chat with Mrs Hudson, and then we are going down to the Yard."

"Um… okay…"

"Brilliant."

Sherlock grabbed John's coat back off the hook, and bundled him into it, and he grabbed his own coat and scarf, tying it with a flourish. Then they descended the stairs, John ahead.

"Mrs Hudson, we would like to talk to you."

"We…?"

Sherlock stepped in behind John.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson. About my chemistry stuff. Don't send it to a school. I'd really rather like to keep it."

Mrs Hudson went pale white, and then she surprised both the men in the room. She beamed at Sherlock.

"I was never really planning on it, dear. It's all in the basement flat."

Sherlock was shocked.

"You put my kit… in the _mouldy _basement? Mrs Hudson, what were you thinking? It needs care, and attention! My set!"

And with that, Sherlock ran from the room to rescue his beloved chemistry set, while John presumably explained all the boring details.

After resetting his equipment, Sherlock appeared back downstairs.

"Ready, John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

They jumped into a cab. Sherlock was sure Mycroft had something to do with the way they materialised out of thin air, the moment he even thought about calling one, but it was too useful to not take advantage.

"Where to?"

"Scotland Yard."

Sherlock and John sat in silence, though Sherlock was so excited to be out of the house, to be finally _doing_ something, that he was practically exploding with it. His leg jittered up and down, and his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.

When they finally reached their destination, Sherlock leapt from the cab, leaving John to pay the cabbie. But then he hesitated, unsure. Maybe John should go in first.

John seemed to understand this, without Sherlock having to voice it, for which he was grateful.

"Maybe I should go ahead. I've been stopping in to see Greg every now and then, anyway."

Sherlock nodded his consent, and followed John in. he felt almost sick at the waves of pity he could see from the people that knew about it, followed by their complete and utter disbelief as they saw who followed in his wake.

John knocked on the door to Lestrade's office.

"Come in."

John opened the door, and Sherlock lingered outside for a moment.

"Hey, Greg."

"John. Nice to see you. How are you holding up? You've not been… you haven't tried to… have you?"

Sherlock winced when he realised what Greg was trying to avoid saying. He and John would have words later.

"Uh… no. No. Actually, things are pretty good… really good, to be honest."

"Really?"

Sherlock chose this moment to make his entrance.

"Hello, Lestrade. Anything good?"

Lestrade's reaction amused Sherlock. He stared for a moment, as if he couldn't quite understand what he was seeing, and then he burst out laughing.

"I should have guessed. Not even death can stop the great Sherlock Holmes. As a matter of fact, we've been having difficulty with a case, no obvious cause of death reported, or motive, just a random body turned up in a woman's apartment while she was out shopping. I was just on my way over now."

Sherlock grinned.

"Ah, brilliant. Sounds slightly interesting. Since Anderson is already there, this will be doubly fun!"

Lestrade sighed.

"I hate to say it, but I missed you, mate."

When they finally arrived at the crime scene, Sherlock was buzzing with anticipation. Anderson was literally the first person he ran into. The look of shock and surprise, with an amusing trace of guilt on his face was the best thing he had seen all day.

Correction, the incoherent spluttering and confusion that was emitted was the best thing he had seen all day.

"But- you- _You're dead!_"

"Do try to form a coherent sentence, Anderson. I'm sure someone with even _your_ level of intelligence can cope. I am quite clearly alive; I'm standing right here in front of you. No please do stop wasting my time, something _fun_ is finally happening!"

Anderson looked quite incapable of forming a single word, so Sherlock simply moved on.

Sergeant Donovan's reaction wasn't anywhere near as entertaining, unfortunately.

"Oh. I see the Freak's not dead, then."

Sherlock smirked.

"Good to see you too, Sally. How's Anderson?"

Then, Sherlock saw the body, and nothing else mattered. He choked just a little. His face strained of colour, and his pulse sounded loud in his ears.

"John. I missed one."

"Sorry?"

"I missed one. I didn't get them all."

Understanding dawned on John's face.

"Wait. How can you tell? From the body?"

"Yes. It's obvious. A message. They want me to be afraid."

Lestrade coughed.

"Care to enlighten us?"

Sherlock sighed.

"One second."

He stepped closer to John.

"I… I'm sorry, John. I failed you. You… and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson. I failed, because I was stupid. I missed something. _There's always something._ I… I was… wrong."

This time, he couldn't stop the tears that threatened at the edges of his vision, and a few slipped down his cheek. John stepped forward, and placed a consoling hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sherlock. We will find him, together. The case, okay?"

Sherlock sniffed, nodded, and wiped his eyes on his scarf.

"Well, the victim is meant as a warning. Like me in many superficial ways, he's tall, dark, curly hair, dressed in a similar style to me, he's clearly homosexual."

Sherlock bent down to look at the victim more closely while the onlookers processed that. Flipping the coat to one side, he saw what had happened.

"John."

His voice came out as a strangled choke.

"What… oh."

Lestrade came over.

"What am I missing?"

Sherlock found himself suddenly unable to continue, and he leaned against John for support.

"Is that…?"

John smiled grimly. The victim's heart had been burnt out.

Anderson was still spluttering behind him.

"Did you just say you were-"

Sherlock stood.

"Gay? No, but I did _imply_ it."

"But… I thought…"

"What, so you people can easily, though very wrongly accept that I am in a relationship with John, but you can't actually accept that I'm gay. God save me from the ridiculous people on this earth!"

There was a vague offensive murmuring from some officer he didn't know the name of, a way off, _God won't save you. He doesn't believe in it. It's unnatural. Bloody poof._

Sherlock frowned slightly, but the insult which would usually have bounced off of his armour slipped through a crack which had formed at his earlier unintentional display of emotion.

He ignored it, anyway.

John, though seeming surprised by the admission, stood by his early concept of _its all fine,_ and he whirled on the offender.

"Do you want to say that again?"

The officer looked vaguely uncomfortable, but he stuck his chin up in defiance.

"I said it's unnatural. It's sick. If the body here was someone gay, then I suppose they deserve it. It's a crime against nature!"

John's face turned thunderous. Without warning, his fist smashed into the other man's face. Sherlock felt a small spark of pleasure at his best friend protecting him so fiercely. He noticed that everyone else at the scene was watching with quiet anticipation.

"Don't you _dare._ Don't. You. Dare. This man did _not_ deserve to live any less than anyone else just because of his sexuality. If anyone deserved it more, it would be homophobic scum like you."

The man grinned sickly, over his shock at getting punched by the small angry man.

"What? Sticking up for your lover?"

"No. I'm not. I actually happen to be straight, that doesn't stop me sticking up for people I care about, Sherlock being my best friend. But I will say this; any man in the Universe would be damned lucky to have Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock glowed with pride at this unexpected compliment.

John stepped back, opening the discussion to his audience.

"Anyone else got a problem they'd like to share?"

The crowd remained quiet, though a few officers twitched nervously.

"That's what I thought."

He turned back to the man.

"As for you, Jacobs, I should think that there would be issues with you investigating this case, seeing as your _views._ Lestrade?"

As Lestrade hurried to deal with the offending officer, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, and dragged him away.

"I've seen everything I need to. We're going home."

In the cab ride home, Sherlock fidgeted uneasily. Finally, he decided to just come out with it.

"Uh… John… did you… uh… did you mean it?"

John looked up, surprised, and then looked around, everywhere but at Sherlock.

"Mean wha… oh… uh yeah…"

John cleared his throat awkwardly, while Sherlock thought about the implications of this, and then filed them away for analysis later.

After all, the game was on.

**So… what did you think? Seriously. I want honest opinions. If it was awful, I can take it… possibly… so… yeah… I know I'm rambling, but… I can't sleep… that's the whole reason I finished this tonight… sorry, **_**this morning.**_

**See, I told you Anderson needed a warning!**

***Grand reveal of Sherlock's plan next chapter!***


	3. A Conversation and A Date

**Thanks again to all the lovely people who read my fic, taking time out of their day to read my words… *blushes* -It makes me happy! I got quite scared after watching Grimm last night, but Valentine 's Day is today, and I have been overtaken by the urge to write.**

**Disclaimer: They're not mine. And they won't ever be… T_T**

**Warning: Talk of suicide. Sorry. Gets a little angsty, but I promise that it's all for the best!**

A Conversation And A Date

When the cab finally arrived at home, Sherlock made sure to pay for the cab, as he knew John would do it if he didn't, and he knew it _did_ irritate John a little when he didn't pay, though he had sufficient funds.

_What's this? The great Sherlock Holmes, taking another person's opinion into account?_

Sherlock smiled wryly at his own internal sense of humour. But it was true. There was something different about John, something which made Sherlock care what he thought, and made him want to make John proud of him.

He followed John upstairs and into the flat.

John, being John, immediately went to the kitchen to make tea, which he seemed to view as the solution for everything.

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly for a moment, before he sprawled on the sofa, though he couldn't allow himself to involve himself in the case yet. There was something more important he needed to do.

_What __**has**__ happened to you, Sherlock? Something __**more**__ important than a case?_

Sherlock frowned. He was hearing Moriarty's voice more and more often, but he set that aside. There was something far more worrying going on.

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Uh… John?"

John appeared in Sherlock's line of vision. Wielding a cup of tea for himself, and a cup of coffee for Sherlock. It wasn't hard for the consulting detective to figure out that it was black, with two sugars, just how he liked it.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pretended he was indifferent to the conversation, but he was carefully measuring the effect of every word, and John's reaction to all that he said.

"We need to talk."

John's forehead creased in confusion.

"About?"

Sherlock watched John's face intently, but out of the corner of his eye.

"About what happened with Lestrade."

John was silent for a moment.

"I… uh, I don't know what you mean…"

Sherlock sat up with a jolt, his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes staring into John's.

"You tried to kill yourself, at least once, after I was gone."

John dropped his eyes to the carpet, ashamed of what he had tried to do.

Sherlock glared.

"You have to _promise_ me, John. You have to promise me that you will _never_ attempt to do that again, no matter _what_!"

John sighed.

"Okay. I promise, Sherlock."

"John. I'm so sorry…"

"It's just. I was… so alone. After I met you, you fixed me. I didn't even know I was broken, but you fixed me. But, without you…"

Sherlock stood, and he walked over to John, crouching by his chair, laying a comforting hand on his knee.

"John. I'm sorry. I had to do it. I wish there had been another way, but…"

"I know, Sherlock… but it's going to take some time."

"That's fine, John. That's something we have."

And they just sat there like that, for a while, John on his armchair, his head in his hands, and Sherlock crouched by his feet, with a hand on his knee, his thumb stroking soothing circles into the warm denim.

After about half an hour, John seemed to notice that Sherlock was doing this, and he stared pointedly down at Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock coughed and let go, shuffling away slightly.

"Promise?"

Sherlock paused, momentarily stumped. It must have shown on his face, because John voiced his clarification.

"That we _will_ have time, and that you will never, ever leave me like that again."

John's anguish slipped into his voice, and Sherlock's heart filled with guilt at the sound. Sherlock realized that John had manipulated the conversation round the other way, but he didn't care.

"I promise."

A weary, sad smile was the response.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at him, and gracefully stood, ignoring his knees cracking in protest.

"Tea?"

"Sherlock, that would be lovely."

Life continued in a similar vein for the next few days, Sherlock being a tiny bit extra considerate to John, opening doors for him, occasionally making tea, that kind of thing.

Until Tuesday.

Date night.

Sherlock hadn't been able to completely focus on the case. He needed it to still be running for his plan to work, so he had spent the last few days pretending to sit and think, while cataloguing more information about John. He had given the case some thought, of course, but he hadn't let himself devote all his time to it, which he wished he could do.

But some things came first.

And he never thought he'd be able to say that. But John was special, John was unique, and he simply _couldn't_ allow him to waste valuable time on the vacuous women, when he could be spending it with Sherlock, working on cases!

Sherlock sighed. He was sprawled on the sofa, while John was in his room upstairs, getting ready.

Wasting his time, getting ready for someone who didn't deserve his attention.

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… you never __**do**__ like to share your toys, do you?_

"I don't need your opinion!"

Sherlock started, when he realised he had snarled out loud at the voice in his head. Glad that John was upstairs; he pulled four nicotine patches from the box, and applied them to his forearm just as John walked into the room.

"Four?"

His surprise was evident in his voice.

"Yeah. It's blatantly a difficult case, I haven't solved it yet."

John nodded, this made sense. Sherlock smiled inwardly, keeping a carefully balanced look of frustration that he couldn't solve it, and delight that this was a decent opponent, plastered on his face.

John went to leave, and Sherlock made sure he looked to be paying no attention. As John descended the stairs, Sherlock could hardly contain his excitement. He was going to initiate his plan today, finally!

He had taken into account every possible scenario, and there was no possible way that this could fail.

He closed his eyes, and pictured John, the way he looked for his date. He was wearing a shirt, plain white and soft cotton, the top two buttons undone so it doesn't look too formal, with a pair of dark jeans. It was much more flattering than his jumpers were. His cheeks had been flushed with excitement for his date.

All in all, he had looked quite… attractive.

After five minutes of waiting, Sherlock had sprung up from the sofa, and changed into some tight black jeans, and his purple shirt.

He then bolted downstairs, and ran to hail a cab.

Twenty minutes, Sherlock was standing outside a gay bar. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to John.

Found a lead. SH

He got the reply seconds later.

So? JW

I need your help! SH

I'm flattered. But I'm on a date. JW

It was obvious that the date wasn't going brilliantly, due to the speediness of John's replies.

Yes, but she's boring you. SH

Address? JW

Sherlock texted him the address.

I'm on my way. JW

Sherlock smirked.

John arrived 10 minutes later. Sherlock glanced at his pocket. John had left, giving the girl enough money to pay for dinner, buy herself dessert if she wished, and get a cab home. But she wasn't particularly interested, due to the fact that he had run off in the middle of a date.

Sherlock grinned at him.

"In there."

John glanced at the place.

"But… that's… that's a-"

"Gay bar? Yes. I think that our killer is tracking down his next victim."

This was true. Sherlock had fortunately managed to figure this much out in the time he had allowed himself. He could fix the problem with John's ridiculous girlfriends, and catch a murderer at the same time.

"Because he… oh, I see…"

John shrugged, and then looked at Sherlock strangely.

"Why do you need me here?"

"Well, I want to avoid attention, and the best way to do that is to already be taken."

"No. Sherlock, I'm not spending Valentine's Day with you. In a gay bar. As your boyfriend. No."

"You'll sacrifice a relationship for me, but you won't pretend to be my boyfriend?"

"No, I won't."

"But, John. There's a murderer in there looking for his next victim!"

John considered this for all of two seconds.

"Fine."

As they walked in, Sherlock put his arm round John's shoulder, squeezing slightly. John's body heat washed over him, and it felt good.

Sherlock led John into the corner, and they began to chat easily, all the while keeping an eye out for the suspect. Sherlock found himself inching closer to John.

He didn't mind.

**Thanks for reading! So, a question for you guys… which bit was the date?**

**Next chapter coming soon!**


	4. Desperation

**So… a big thanks, again to those who have story alerted and commented… you make a fic writer's world turn.**

**I'm so sorry it's been so long, but I lost inspiration.**

**At least it's here now…**

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, they don't belong to me.**

Desperation

Sherlock was close enough to John now, that he could feel his body heat. They were in their own private bubble, separate from all the lights, and the pointless noise from all the other ridiculous people.

They didn't matter.

All that mattered was John.

John's smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he hung on Sherlock's every word…

Sherlock filed all these moments away in his mind palace, which was slowly being overrun by images of John…

Sherlock smiled, and then excused himself to go to the toilet.

He grinned as he went into the men's room. Smiled, at his reflection. He brushed shoulders with a man. Deductions quickly filled his mind. This man was here… for…

Flooding with panic, he whirled round, and ran back to their seat.

His worst fear had been realised.

John was gone.

His pulse was pounding in his ears. He couldn't think, couldn't focus. So he did the only thing he could. He texted Lestrade.

Meet at flat. Urgent. Hurry. SH

Sherlock hailed a cab, and briskly instructed the driver to his home address, along with sharp instructions to hurry.

He waited impatiently while the cab was moving, shifting restlessly, his fingers tapping on his thigh, a jerky, staccato beat.

His mind was jumping everywhere. Or rather, it kept jumping back to the _same_ thing. The same person.

John.

Ugh. Is this what caring did to someone? His mind felt coated with panic, and he couldn't focus on the _really_ important thing, and put John out of his conscious mind, so he could focus on finding him.

When the cab _finally_ drew to a stop, Sherlock flung some money at the driver, and practically leapt out of the cab.

He dashed upstairs, to find that Lestrade had not yet arrived. Sherlock couldn't focus to figure out when he'd be here, so he just settled for running up to the flat, and flopping on the sofa impatiently.

It took a full ten minutes before his jittery mind noticed something wrong.

_The mantelpiece._

He walked over, and spotted a small envelope.

It was addressed to him.

He slit it open, and pulled out the paper from inside.

_I'd been planning on a pseudo John, but, thanks to you I have the real thing._

_Much love, M xx_

He _knew_ it wasn't him, he just knew it, but a nagging doubt edged on his mind. It was the missing sniper. He had John.

Just then, Lestrade burst into the flat.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, for once not caring tht his panic and desperation showed plain on his face.

"The murderer. He has John."

"What? The one who's killing gay people? But John's not-"

"The murderer isn't killing gay people as his main aim. He is trying to get a warning to me, but he is trying to do it with gay people where possible, as he is massively homophobic. Also, no, John isn't gay, but he _was_ at a gay bar, with me. "

"What? Really?"

"Yes. We were trying to track down the murderer." Sherlock blushed slightly, and cleared his throat.

Lestrade frowned, unconvinced.

"Oh, God, Greg… this is entirely my fault!"

Greg looked surprised by his outpouring of emotion.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sure that it really isn't-"

"Lestrade, I am hardly the kind of person to blame myself for something that isn't actually my fault. For one, John wouldn't have even been there had it not been for me… and secondly, had I not been… uh… distracted, I would have noticed the murderer."

Once again, a faint blush coloured his cheeks.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Distracted?"

Sherlock glared at him.

"Yes."

"From a _case_?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Whoever it is must be something special."

Sherlock frowned slightly.

"He is. That's why we have to find him."

"Wait- _John?"_

"Yes."

"What happened to 'it's not like that'?

"Unfortunately, it's not. Now can we _please_ focus?"

Understanding bloomed, pathetically obviously, on Lestrade's face.

"Oh. _Oh._ Okay. Focussing."

"Good. Now, I want details. Pictures from the last scene, interviews, anything you have on the case so far."

Sherlock tried to come across as normal, but he knew his eyes were a bit to wild, and his voice was a bit too urgent. But he was desperate.

He needed John.

It was his fault.

He would make it right.

Lestrade nodded, expecting this.

"They're in the car. I'll just go get them."

Sherlock smiled, and nodded, vaguely, but his thoughts were still in a whir. No matter how he tried, he couldn't not think about John.

He sprawled on the sofa, but being idle wasn't helping. He jittered, and twitched, and fidgeted.

Lestrade came back, what felt like, hours later, and Sherlock practically pounced on him, grabbing what he had in his hands. He frantically read through it all. And he read it again, and again.

Frowning, and frustrated, he slammed it down onto the coffee table.

"Alright there, Sherlock?"

"No! oh, God… this information, gives me a decent picture of who he was, and I'm sure if I _saw_ him, I'd know him instantly, but it doesn't _help_!"

Something had caught his eye, though. The toxin report. A drug called Haemlin Baesulphate had been used, which knocked the subject unconscious for roughly four hours, then reduces them to a feverish state for the next two.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. The murderer had been there, at the gay bar. So, Sherlock must have seen him at some point. Now, he had a part of his mind palace which temporarily stored the day's information, until he deemed it unnecessary to delete. So, all he had to do was go through it, and find him.

And then, he would track him down, and make him pay.

"Get out."

"Sorry?"

And that was it. That one word tore at Sherlock, until he finally ripped. That was… John's response. He had said it a lot, on the first day they met.

He broke down into tears.

Lestrade was stood there awkwardly, seeing the stony man breaking down was something which really made him hate the person who had done this.

After a few minutes, Sherlock pulled himself together.

"Uh… I'm going to go to my mind palace. If you… uh… _must_ stay, be quiet. Don't think."

It was a plea to stay, and Sherlock knew that Lestrade knew that. So he did.

Sherlock closed his eyes, forced himself to focus, and went through everything.

And he couldn't spot the murderer anywhere.

He played it all through, every single tiny bit, and there was nobody that he could see.

He was interrupted by a text from Mycroft.

No. I don't know where he went. Open your mind, Sherlock. Don't go into this with any ideas. M

Sherlock snorted. Another dental appointment? He really should eat less cake…

Sherlock frowned, considering this, and played it back through.

And then it hit him. He had assumed that the murderer was male. What if that wasn't the case.

Then he saw her.

That woman.

The one John had been dating.

He knew where John was.

"Lestrade! We're leaving!"

"You know where he is?"

"I know exactly where he is."

He dashed downstairs, and rapped on the door to Mrs Hudson's flat.

"Mrs Hudson!"

She opened the door.

"Yes, dear?"

"I need the key to 221C."

"Oh, well, I don't have it. A nice young lady came by, about an hour ago, and said she was interested, and could she spend some time in there? So I gave it to her."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, that is exactly what I had expected to hear."

"Oh, well, okay dear."

"Lestrade, I will go first, stay up here. I expect her to run. John is my top priority."

Sherlock whirled round, dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his lock pick.

He approached the door to 221C, and let himself in.

He sneaked downstairs, silently fuming.

He walked into the room, to find _her_ standing over John's unconscious form, sneering, a knife in her hand.

He stalked over, grabbed _her_ by the throat, and pushed _her_ back against the wall, and growled into _her_ ear.

"Don't you touch him! Understand this. John is _mine!_"

He pushed _her_ away, and ignored _her_ as _she_ scrambled off. He needed to go to John.

He approached him, checked all his vitals.

He seemed fine, just unconscious.

Gently, Sherlock knelt down at John's side.

"John?"

He murmured the name, so softly, like he was afraid even his voice would break John. He rested a hand on his cheek, and then, slowly, slipped it under his head, so it was cupping it.

He gently slid his other arm around John's unconscious form, and brought John to him.

A few stray tears managed to leak out of his eyes, and as he couldn't brush them off, they splashed onto John.

He brought John close to himself, and turned and carried him up the stairs.

Lestrade had only just come in, _she_ was gone, but clearly into his car. He looked worried.

"He's just unconscious. _She _didn't have enough time to do anything."

Sherlock was aware of the venom in his voice, when he spat it out, and of the dangerous flashing in his eyes.

He didn't care,

John was _his_ and whoever dared lay a finger on him, could go to hell.

"Okay… well, uh, I'm going to take her in for questioning on the other murders, but, uh… you look after John, okay?

Sherlock nodded at Lestrade.

He needed a hand with this…

"Mrs Hudson!"

She came out of her flat, then saw John, and went pale.

"Oh dear! Sherlock, what has happened to him?"

"The woman that you gave the key to the basement flat tried to murder him. Please, from now on, will you be more careful with whom you let in here?"

Mrs Hudson looked panicked.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to be aware of the situation, and to let you know that I don't plan on leaving his side until he is better."

He held John tighter in his arms, then turned and took John upstairs to 221B

He took John into his room, deciding it would be easier without the stairs in between sleeping arrangements, and the kitchen and bathroom. He pulled a chair up next to the bed, and settled down to wait.

**So, what did you think? I made up the drug… pretty cool, don't you think?**

**So, review, if you think it's worth it…**

**Please?**

**Anyway, next chapter should be up soon…**

**Love you guys xx**


	5. Not What I Meant

**Thanks again to all the lovely people who have reviewed, story alerted, favourited, or even just read.**

**You are great, and you make me feel like this is worth doing.**

**Anyways, just… thanks again, and thanks also to Ellen and Becka, whose enthusiasm for my fic helped me write it.**

**Now… this has dragged on a little… sorry!**

**Disclaimer: They are not mine. If they were, this would happen in the show…**

Not What I Meant

Sherlock didn't know how long he had sat there. Time didn't mean anything. His world revolved around John- the sound of is breathing. The way he finally looked peaceful in sleep…

Not that Sherlock had been watching before.

So, it was obvious to him when John was about to wake up. His breathing became shallower, and his eyelids started to flutter.

John then sat bolt upright, looking around blindly. Sherlock would be here to help him through this.

"Mmmm… Sh'lock?"

"It's okay, John I'm here."

"You… gay."

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, stunned by that outburst. It wasn't exactly… relevant.

_He's feverish. That's all._

""Yes, John, I am."

John smiled dopily at him.

"Thass good."

Sherlock stayed quiet, again. He decided to file all this away for thought later. He was analysing the problem of what had happened to John subconsciously.

It was obvious that the sniper was involved.

At a guess, Sherlock would say he had employed _her_ to seduce, and then kill John… and thanks to him, it had happened sooner than the sniper had been expecting…

And the note… who was 'M'?

It blatantly wasn't Moriarty… Sherlock knew that… it was clearly the sniper, but _who was he?_

This would be dealt with later, in his mind palace.

John cleared his throat.

"Sh'lock… 'm… thirsty…"

Sherlock smiled fondly at his temporarily out of action blogger.

"There you go."

He handed him a glass of water, and helped him bring it to his lips.

John sipped the drink, then smiled goofily.

Sherlock frowned to himself, this wasn't the fever… he grabbed John's laptop.

He opened it. Typed in Afghanistan.

**Incorrect password.**

He frowned. What else could it be?

Harriet.

**Incorrect password.**

What is it?

"Sh'lock!"

"Yes, John?"

"Iss Sh'lock. Buh don tell Sh'lock!"

Sherlock frowned at that, but his heart softened slightly at the urgency in John's voice.

"Okay. I _promise_ I won't tell Sherlock."

John grinned at him.

"Good."

He then snuggled down and went back to sleep.

Filled with sudden trepidation, Sherlock slowly typed his own name into the password box and pressed enter.

It worked.

Sherlock was filled with feelings he didn't really understand. He hated these stupid feelings. That's why he wanted to get the problem with John's girlfriends out of the way. He was being distracted by it, so it needed to stop.

But why would John have _his_ name as his computer password. They were friends; didn't people often put the name of friends as a password? Maybe he thought Sherlock wouldn't guess it…

Which was true. If John hadn't told him, Sherlock would never have guessed.

Frowning, Sherlock put these thoughts to the back of his mind.

John was what mattered right now.

He opened the internet browser, and typed into the search engine _**Haemlin Baesulphate**_.

After over an hour of browsing through to find the relevant information, he was fully informed of all the effects. The drug affected different people differently. Some could be unconscious for days, and then the fever could last for up to a day.

The fever wasn't really a fever, either. It was for some people, but others were simply a bit goofy, others would just sleep through it.

He glanced at John, suddenly resisting the urge to go over to him, and run his hands through his hair.

"Sh'lock?"

"Yes, John?"

Sherlock was at John's side in an instant, before he'd finished speaking, ready for whatever he asked.

Because, contrary to what people believed, deep, deep down, he did care. He had pretended not to, buried it deep, to protect himself. His childhood had taught him that caring hurt.

He had eventually ended up convincing himself that it was true.

That he didn't have a heart.

Then, this strong-willed, loyal, insufferably moral man had somehow worked through the cracks.

Sherlock found himself focussing on John's mouth, as he licked his lips.

"'M thirsty."

Sherlock smirked whilst handing John the glass.

"Again?"

Sherlock's ringtone rang out.

He frowned, checking the display. Lestrade.

It was probably important. He wouldn't have bothered him if it wasn't.

He accepted the call.

"What is it?"

"Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering… did you want to… walk to her?"

"You couldn't have texted? I have more important things to attend to."

Sherlock glanced at John.

"Oh _really_?"

Sherlock picked up the suggestive tone in Lestrade's voice. Of course he did. Not even Anderson could have missed it.

"Oh, not like that!"

"So, will you come?"

"How long will it wait?"

"Until John's better, if that's what you're asking."

"That was."

"Okay, then. I'll just-"

"Greg."

Lestrade's surprise was evident even over the phone.

"Did you just-"

"I wanted to… you helped… earlier…"

Thankfully, Lestrade understood what Sherlock was trying to say, and Sherlock didn't actually have to _say_ it.

"Oh, uh… no problem. Anytime, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked again at John, who was watching him curiously, his eyes bright and his cheeks flushed.

Sherlock pulled his old self back.

"Look, Lestrade. I would _love_ to chat mindlessly with you, but I actually have work to do."

"Oh. Sorry."

Sherlock hung up, smirking.

"Whowassat?"

John blurted, then frowned, confused, as if he couldn't work out why all his words had come out as one.

Sherlock smirked at John.

"Lestrade. Don't worry, John, it's the effects of the poison you were given."

Sherlock was aware his tone had turned bitter towards the end of the sentence, but he really didn't care.

"Oh."

John giggled, and Sherlock felt his heart lifting slightly. He knew he needed to track down the sniper, but he was well aware that he would not be able to focus unless he knew John was safe, and the best way to do that would be to wait until John was well enough to come with him.

Sighing, Sherlock knelt down on the carpet next to the sofa.

"Is there anything you need? Anything at all?"

John just giggled again, and Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh again.

"Boys, I thought you might want this."

Mrs Hudson came through the door to the flat, with a tray of food.

"Mrs Hudson, you are a saint!"

He smiled warmly at her, and took the tray from her.

"I wasn't sure what would be best, so I made some soup, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. It's perfect."

"Just this once, though. I'm not your housekeeper."

"I know."

"Just you focus on getting him better, dear."

"I will."

Sherlock smiled again, and took the tray back to the sofa.

"Sh'lock."

"Hmm?"

"Good… for… bein… nice."

Sherlock smiled, glad to have gained the approval from John, even if it was from a sick, slightly feverish John.

"Soup?"

John seemed tired out from speaking, so he merely shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

John's reply was a breathy whisper.

"You… haven… eaten… for… days…"

"I know that. It's fine."

John glared at him. Sherlock sighed. He knew that glare. John would not eat unless Sherlock did, and he knew that Sherlock cared enough to want him to eat.

"Really…? You… look… about… readyto… pass… out…"

Sherlock frowned.

"Fine. I'll eat too. But it's going to slow my thinking."

John grinned at him.

Sherlock pouted. There was no case on, but John was not exactly at his best, and he had wanted to stay as sharp as possible.

"Only… soup… couldbe… worse…"

Sherlock smiled.

"Just have some. It may soothe your throat."

John nodded and picked up some bread, offering it to Sherlock, who shook his head, and took the smallest bowl of soup.

They ate in comfortable silence, Sherlock watching John the whole time.

John yawned.

"'M tired."

Sherlock frowned at him.

"The sofa's hurting your shoulder."

"A little. But it's not like I can go anywhere right now."

Sherlock smirked.

"I'll carry you."

John panicked.

"No, no! really, I'm fine-"

"Oh, relax! I don't think I'll be able to manage the stairs, though, so I'll put you in my room."

Sherlock blushed a little as he said this, aware how it might come across. But he was merely being practical.

John began to protest again, so Sherlock scooped him up into his arms.

It was amazing how incredibly different this felt when John was aware of it.

Sherlock took John into his room, and set him down gently on the bed, covering him with the duvet.

He pulled up a chair, and sat next to it, trying to push away the feeling that had come over him.

John was in his bed.

Ever since The Woman had slept there, Sherlock had not been able to sleep in it himself. But now, he knew he would lie in it, if not sleep, regularly.

He smiled down at John.

He was already asleep.

**So… this has been a real epic project for me…**

**I have had coursework and all sorts to distract me… I'm sorry!**

**I'm thinking of rewriting this fic, when it's finished, but from John's POV…**

**But, while writing this, I had the most brilliant idea! I love the idea, and know exactly where I'm taking this, so hopefully the new chapter should be up in no time.**

**((I'm so looking forward to writing this!))**

***Sits down at laptop with cup of tea and types furiously***


	6. Sleep It Off

**Hello guys… so things haven't been great at home recently, which I guess is good for you… because I write more…**

**A great big thank you to all who story alerted, favourited, author alerted, or just read.**

**I had the loveliest review from mihxx, it really made my day, and convinced me to continue writing at ten past two ****at night **** in the morning XD**

**I love you guys!**

**Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine.**

**WARNING!: ANDERSON ((He's really bad in this one, guys!))**

Sherlock smiled fondly at John's sleeping form. He looked so peaceful.

Checking to make sure he was asleep, Sherlock finally gave in to the ever-nagging urge, and curled his fingers into his doctor's hair.

Sighing contentedly, he slid onto the bed, alongside John, and rested his head against the doctor's shoulder.

He hummed in appreciation as the warmth spread through his skin at the feel of John's.

He froze, as he felt a low chuckle from the form below his head.

"Wasn't qui… asleep…"

Sherlock felt his face flush.

"Uh, I, uh…it wasn't… I mean… you… uh… looked cold."

John chuckled again.

"Iss kay."

"I… uh… really?"

He felt John nod.

"Uh-huh. Was a little cold."

Sherlock flushed slightly.

"Oh. Uh… right. Yeah, couldn't be bothered to go find blankets. Plus, human comfort of this sort is supposed to help stop… uh… nightmares, or something."

John yawned, and Sherlock took the hint. He was babbling, and keeping John awake. He shut up, and moved slightly closer to John, shutting his eyes, and smiling. This was nice.

And he lay there, as John slept, not moving, content.

His brain, though, was not idle. He was busy carefully analysing the problem with the sniper. He tried looking at it from every possible angle, but it was no use.

He simply didn't have enough information.

He needed more, and for that, he needed John to be able to come with him.

He had realised how much he'd come to rely on his blogger, after The Fall, when he wasn't there anymore. Sherlock had felt so empty then.

So alone.

But his John had been returned to him, and balance had returned to the universe.

Sherlock smiled, and he felt himself beginning to grow sleepy. Internally, he shrugged. There was no case on… that he could do anything for right now… why shouldn't he sleep?

So he shut his eyes and dreamt.

_It was a trip back in time, to when John was down in 221C._

_Sherlock had only just realised, and he bolted down the stairs._

_John._

_He had to save John._

_But this time, he was too late._

_He was a couple of seconds later, and __**she**__ had plunged the knife into John's heart._

_John was dead._

_Dead._

_He was alone._

_None of it mattered._

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock opened his eyes, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He saw John. Alive, breathing.

Before he could think twice, he grabbed the doctor and hugged him.

After a few moments, he realised he was babbling, a garbled rush of _you're alive_ and _you're okay_ and _she didn't hurt you _spilling out of his mouth.

"Of course I'm okay... Is that what your dream was about?"

Sherlock, who had buried his face in John's neck, and was shaking slightly, nodded.

Though Sherlock didn't see it, John smiled fondly at the detective, and began rubbing in small circles on his back.

Sherlock smiled a little. The rubbing was nice. Comforting. The feel of John's body, solid and warm, was also helping.

"On the upside, at least I got some sleep."

Sherlock laughed dryly, and without a trace of humour.

John looked at him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock, who was feeling unusually emotional, nodded.

"Go on, then."

"Well… it was about when you were kidnapped."

John nodded, encouragingly.

"And I was… too late."

Sherlock's breath hitched.

"I see."

"But, John. Listen to me. None of it mattered any more. Not the cases, nothing. Because you were gone. So, you have to promise me not to get killed. Ever. Okay?"

John looked at Sherlock.

"Oh, Sherlock. I promise. But I'm not going to stop helping you."

"I'd never ask that."

John looked relieved.

Sherlock smiled, and let go of John, realising he was still hugging him.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly.

"You seem better, John."

"I do, don't I? Good thing too, really."

Sherlock grinned at John, eager to put all this ridiculous stuff behind him now.

John was better.

This means they have a case.

Sherlock grinned, and leapt off the bed, grabbing John's arm and dragging him from the bedroom, to find Lestrade in their living room, clearly having just walked in.

Who saw them, Sherlock and John both sporting impressive bed heads, and Sherlock dragging John out of his bedroom.

Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to the appearance of their situation, grinned at the Detective Inspector.

"Lestrade. Got anything new on the shooter?"

Lestrade coughed.

"No. I had come by to check on John… but he's clearly fine…"

John cottoned on to the hidden meaning in Lestrade's words.

"No! No, nothing like that! Jesus, Greg!"

Sherlock was still feigning obliviousness, but in reality, he was, as usual, hurt by John's vehement rejection of the insinuation of a relationship between them.

Was he really that bad?

No. he was just being insecure.

John had said before, that if he was interested in men, he'd be lucky to have Sherlock…

Lestrade's look communicated with him a need to talk. Sherlock nodded, ever so subtly, then glanced at John, pleading in his eyes.

John got the veiled hint, and cleared his throat.

"I'll… uh… go get dressed."

Sherlock nodded, and John made his way upstairs to his room.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who sprawled onto his armchair.

Lestrade came over, and was about to sit in John's chair.

"No. Sofa. Please."

Lestrade looked confused for a moment, but then thought back to after Sherlock's 'suicide'. The armchair he'd been about to sit in had been John's.

"So… if not _what it looked like_, what was going on?"

Sherlock frowned.

"We're really going to discuss my relationship when there's a case on?"

"John's getting dressed, so there's time for it."

Sherlock sighed, and decided to edit the truth slightly.

"John was on the sofa, and it was irritating his shoulder, and he didn't have the strength to move. Since I was carrying him, I found it more practical to have him sleep in my room. I sat by him on a chair, which soon grew uncomfortable, but I wasn't going to leave him. In the interests of practicality, I slept on the bed also."

"You've let him go upstairs now."

"Yes, but for a start, he has his strength back, and he is getting dressed."

Lestrade nodded.

There had been something nagging at the corner of his mind, ever since he saw the Detective Inspector, and he now placed it.

"So, while we're on the topic of relationships… I see you finally divorced your wife."

Lestrade nodded. It was a short, sharp, 'don't try to change the subject' nod.

Sherlock smirked.

"How's my brother?"

Lestrade blushed.

"How did- never mind."

Sherlock looked at him, seriously.

"I am genuinely glad that you're happy. My brother… is good for you."

Lestrade blushed again.

"Thank you."

Sherlock got up, and sat on the sofa with Lestrade.

"John… he doesn't like me like that, does he?"

Lestrade looked lost for words.

"What makes you say that?"

"He hates it. When people think we're together. He acts like he'd rather die than go out with me."

Sherlock could feel the tears springing to his eyes.

That was when John came downstairs.

He took one look at Sherlock, tears now streaming down his face, and Lestrade, sat awkwardly, and practically ran over to the sofa, and sat on the arm.

He drew the sobbing Sherlock into his arms.

"Look, whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head, jerkily, against John's shoulder.

John just rubbed Sherlock's back, as he cried.

When the tears had stopped, John smiled gently at Sherlock.

"You certainly have been emotional recently, haven't you?"

Sherlock smirked a little, then pouted.

"Your fault."

John frowned.

"_My_ fault?"

"Yes. My emotions have been out of control ever since you were kidnapped."

John laughed.

"And that's my fault?"

Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade coughed.

"I also came to ask you if you wanted to wait for information down at the Yard."

Sherlock nodded.

"We'll get a cab, though."

Lestrade nodded, and left.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, and threw John's coat at him.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Mr Hudson came out of her flat.

"Yes, dear?"

"Just letting you know that John is better now, and that we're on the way down to Scotland Yard. I don't know when we'll be back."

"Okay, dear."

Sherlock briskly embraced her.

He led the way outside, John following closely behind him.

He hailed a cab, they climbed inside, and Sherlock rattled out Scotland Yard, while John shut the door.

Sherlock was impatient through the drive, he always is. The journey always irritates him, especially when there is traffic, and he could probably get there faster running.

When they arrived, Sherlock leapt out of the cab, leaving John to find fare. After all, they had a case. Sherlock swept into Scotland Yard, followed by Lestrade, where they bumped into Donovan and Anderson.

Anderson muttered something, and Donovan laughed. John was closer than Sherlock was, because he glared.

"Say that again."

Anderson jerked his head up.

"I said; It's the freak and his little boyfriend."

John had clearly lost all tolerance with these two. He grabbed Anderson by his coat collar.

"Did you not get my message last time. Sherlock is a better man than you will ever be. So shut up. Yes, he's gay. Is it anything to do with you? No."

He let go of Anderson, and glared at both of them.

"Stop. Calling. Him. A. Freak. He is amazing, and brilliant, and you two are completely clueless if you can't see that."

Sally glared back at him.

"Yeah, but what kind of freak fakes his own suicide?"

John punched the wall.

"DAMMIT, Donovan! And who helped drive him to that? Huh? Who started it? Who made Lestrade question Sherlock's credibility?"

He stepped closer, and his voice dropped low, and deadly.

"I cleared his name, without your help. Without his help. But do you want to know why he did it? Why he jumped?"

He stepped closer.

"To save the lives of the three people who he actually cared about."

Donovan began to retort, but John cut her off.

"Don't even bother. He only has three people who he cares about? That's because nobody else lets him in. Nobody else cares. No. You can't call him a freak. He jumped from that roof, because there was a sniper pointed at me, at Lestrade, and at Mrs Hudson, so don't you dare, _don't you dare_ treat him like he's beneath you."

Sherlock had stood in stunned silence while this happened, the spell broken when John stormed out.

Sherlock turned to run after him, but was stopped by Lestrade, who spoke to him in a low voice.

"I won't have any allegations against him, because Anderson bloody deserved that. Sherlock… is it true? The thing about the snipers? Did you really jump… at least in part… to save me?"

Sherlock just nodded.

Just as he was about to go after John, yet again, he was stopped. By his phone. It was a text.

_**You really should take better care of your pet. He's back in my sights. M.**_

His blood froze.

"John."

Lestrade looked confused.

"John?"

"Yes. Find him. Now."

Sherlock ran from the room his mind buzzing.

Back_. "back in my sights_." It was… the sniper after John. From St Barts. He must have survived, somehow.

He paused for a moment. Whenever John was mad, he said he needed some air.

So, he'd be outside.

They couldn't go back to the flat.

Not yet.

Sherlock thought for a moment. They would go to a hotel. A little-known, but still nice one. They would tell no-one where they were. Mycroft would know, and though he would probably tell Lestrade, it shouldn't spread further than that. They'd find the highest one. The highest flat, above all the surrounding buildings, to keep John safe from all prowling snipers.

He thought through all this, but chose to organise it after he had got back to John.

Sherlock continued running, until he saw him.

Fists clenched; anger clearly visible.

In some ways, Sherlock was flattered, but he also wanted to hand Anderson and Donovan's over to Mycroft for making John angry.

He approached John.

"Uh… thanks for that."

John smiled when he saw him, relaxing a little.

"No problem."

Sherlock pulled out his phone, and made the arrangements for the hotel.

John looked at him curiously.

Sherlock looked at John. He quickly texted Mycroft, telling to pick up essentials from the flat and bring it to the hotel.

"John, the sniper has threatened you. We are going to stay at a hotel for a short while, I don't know how long. We're not going to the flat first, Mycroft is bringing over the necessities."

John looked at Sherlock, he could read the look in his eyes.

"What's the bad news?"

"There was only one suitable room. Only one bed."

**Can I hear you all go "Oooooooohhh~"? **

**What did you think?**

**Good? Bad? Downright awful? Let me know!**

**Please?**

**See? Told you Anderson was bad!**

**Next chapter should be up sooner. I'm really getting into writing this XD**


	7. I Don't Know What To Feel

**Hey guys! So, you may have noticed (and, from what I've heard, appreciated…) the change in format. I will continue aligning to the left, and have gone back and edited all my previous chapters.**

**So, yeah… just wanted to say… thanks again, to all who have read, story alerted, favourited, author alerted, reviewed… you're brilliant XD**

**This chapter is going to end up really quite fluffy… probably.**

**So, I hope you enjoy it…**

It's Not That I Don't Like You…

John had initially complained about the arrangements, but Sherlock had deftly outlined all the practicalities of it, until he couldn't argue.

Sherlock smiled, in the cab towards the hotel.

His plan was working perfectly.

The journey to the hotel was incredibly boring. It was on the opposite side of London to Scotland Yard, and was well-hidden, which was a large part of the reason Sherlock had chosen it. He got the cab driver to stop outside of a different hotel, nearby, just in case, then he and John walked down side alleys to their chosen one.

They walked into the lobby, where Sherlock went to the desk, and smiled.

"I made a reservation earlier, on the phone, in the name of Allan Harding."

The receptionist smiled at him, and handed over his key.

"There you go. Hope you enjoy it."

He went ahead to the lift, John close behind him.

As soon as the doors closed, John looked at Sherlock, desperate to make conversation for once. John was usually content to leave him in silence.

"She seemed nice."

"I feel sorry for her."

"You do? Why?"

"She came in early today, so she could leave early, to surprise him. She's planning on proposing tonight, but she's going to get back, and find him sleeping with her sister."

"How did- Never mind. It's you."

"It's her perfume."

John grinned and nodded.

"Don't have to explain it. I'll trust you."

Sherlock smiled at John, and the lift got to their floor.

Sherlock walked down the corridor to their room, and unlocked their door.

John frowned at him, as they went inside.

"You seem awfully familiar with this place."

Sherlock looked at him, as he shut the door behind them

"I… uh, stayed here for a sort while… after the fuss had died down… about my death, that is…"

He coughed nervously.

"No. there's more to it than that."

"Please don't push it…"

"What aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"Don't forget… you asked me to tell you."

John nodded.

"Go ahead…"

"Before it changed management, I used to come here… before I met you…"

John missed the meaning behind this admission, at first, but then it dawned on him. _I used to come here to do drugs._

He blushed.

"I- I'm sorry."

"Don't be… Mycroft will be here in about ten minutes."

"Okay."

An idea occurred to Sherlock. The sniper… he was obviously John's sniper. From St Barts. He was sure he had… taken care of him. Obviously it had been another member of Moriarty's web, hired to appear to be John's sniper.

So, he simply had to recheck through the footage he had on his laptop, which Mycroft would definitely bring, and he should, hopefully be able to pick out the sniper.

So he had to wait for just a short time, and he'd be able to move on with the case.

This case, though, didn't hold the appeal of the others. Not now the intended victim was John. Sure, Sherlock wanted it solved as quickly as possible, and for that he needed to work, but he was feeling no thrilling rush at the prospect of danger.

Not for John.

The fact that John was being threatened, his _life_ being threatened, well, that made Sherlock see red. And he knew that he wasn't able to focus properly, and that the anger and emotion clouded his judgement.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

Mycroft.

Brilliant! He could get started!

He practically ripped the door off of its hinges, and nodded at the suited man with his umbrella.

"Hello, Sherlock. Doctor Watson. Someone is bringing your possessions up, as we speak."

Sherlock nodded his thanks at his brother. He supposed he should try making conversation.

"How's Lestrade?"

John did a confused double-take.

Mycroft smiled slightly.

"Gregory is perfectly fine, thank you for asking."

If Sherlock didn't know his brother so well, not even _he_ would have noticed how long it took him to respond, or the slight blush colouring his cheeks.

But then one of Mycroft's minions came up with their bags, and Sherlock pounced on his. Remembering temporarily, he dug a letter out his jacket pocket. It was for Mycroft, thanking him for stopping all press interest in him, and his return to the living.

He handed it to Mycroft, then opened his bug, and extracted his laptop.

Mycroft took this as his signal to leave.

"Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

"Bye, Mycroft. And… uh… pass on my congratulations to Greg, will you?"

Mycroft smiled at him, a rare display of emotion from the Iceman.

"Thank you."

John nodded at Mycroft, absently.

Sherlock sprawled on the bed, as it was the only comfortable place to sit, and opened his laptop.

He began to analyse the video, frame by frame, taking every possible angle. He knew this was going to be hard. He had known it from the start. But who was he if he didn't appreciate a challenge?

This was definitely a challenge.

Sherlock was so involved in his work that it barely registered that John had left the room. That he barely realised John was showering.

But he _did_ notice when a pyjama-clad John Watson turned off the lights and climbed into bed with him.

He froze when he felt the bed dip, his heart thudding erratically.

Because both of them were completely in their right minds, Sherlock suddenly felt that this was very different to earlier.

_Very_ different.

He tingled from head to toe, the warmth from John's body surrounding him. John was as far away as the space would allow, but that was still very, _very_ close.

Sherlock was hyper-aware of John's body, just centimetres away, and he knew he couldn't work like this.

John sighed.

"Sherlock, it's late…" A pause while he checked his watch "…early. Are you going to keep that up all night? Because if you are, go somewhere else to do it. I'm going to sleep."

Sherlock quickly shut down the laptop.

"There's nothing more I can do tonight, anyway."

A stunned silence from John.

Sherlock placed the laptop down by the side of the bed, then realised he was still dressed.

He quickly got up, and made his way to the bathroom, grabbing his bag on the way.

It was dark, but his eyes were already well-adjusted. He flicked the light on in the bathroom, and pulled out his pyjamas. He quickly showered, then dressed, and brushed his teeth.

He had to take a deep breath before unlocking the door and making his way back into the main hotel room.

John was already asleep. That should make this easier.

Sherlock picked his way back across the room, and slipped under the duvet. He tensed all his muscles, to resist the urge to press himself up against John.

Sighing, he lay on his back, and finally, with the heat of John against his side, fell asleep.

Sherlock woke in the morning, to find a lightly struggling John underneath him. Wait… _underneath_? Sherlock realised he had his arms firmly around his doctor.

He let go, and sprang back as quickly as possible.

"I… uh… I apologise."

John looked at Sherlock.

"It's… uh, it's… fine."

Sherlock grabbed his laptop, and set back to work.

He analysed the footage, over and over, and then he saw it. A figure, tall-ish, with sandy hair, and a black duffel bag. Talking to the man Sherlock had tracked down and… dealt with.

He sprang up.

"John! I found him!"

John looked up, from where he was, by the door, clearly more anxious about this than Sherlock was.

"You did? That's excellent."

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders, and whirled him around.

"Yes, my dear doctor!"

In the heat of the moment, he hardly registered that the things he normally only thought were being said out loud.

Before he realised what he was doing, he bent down and kissed John firmly on the lips.

John froze.

Sherlock caught himself, and backed away, embarrassed, and muttering apologies.

He's done it now.

Ruined it.

No going back.

No fixing this.

Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. John.

John pulled him, so he was back facing him.

"Sherlock. Don't apologise."

Sherlock froze. Does this mean… was John…?

John stood on his tiptoes, and pulled Sherlock down a little, and their lips met, gently, slowly, softly.

John broke off the kiss, and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, and he could hardly move, but it registered that John was… crying?

He pulled John toward the bed, and took a seat, John on his lap.

"John… what's wrong?"

John looked at Sherlock. He was smiling.

"Nothing. I'm so happy, Sherlock. So happy you wouldn't believe. I just… this is what I've always wanted. But, I didn't think you…"

"Wrong, John. On both accounts. I am pretty sure I know exactly how you are feeling. I feel it too. But _I_ thought you were completely heterosexual."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

John pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, and when it stopped, he pressed his lips against the detective's neck. Sherlock almost missed his whispered words.

"I love you."


	8. Mycroft

**So… I'm kind of at a sleepover… ((AKA I didn't sleep at all last night… XD))**

**Seriously, I'm running on lemonade and Haribo Tangfastics… **

**So, anyways, if there are typos… I sincerely apologise.**

**This chapter contains hints of Protective!Mycroft and Possessive!Sherlock. Well. It does. But maybe not to you. Um. And it's really short, as well. Sorry.**

**Disclaimer: These beautiful characters are not mine…**

Mycroft

Sherlock's world slowed right down. He could feel his heart beating; feel the blood pumping around his body. Every second was an hour to him, as these words sunk in.

_I love you._

Sherlock relaxed on the bed, his arms around his doctor, pulling him back with him. His lips automatically found their way to the top of John's head.

His mind spun.

John _loved_ him! John loved _him_!

Nobody had ever told Sherlock that before.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John.

"I love you too."

John grinned at him.

"I was getting that."

They lay there, cocooned in each other's warmth, not wanting to move, until John's phone went off.

He checked it.

**John. I think we need to have a chat. –MH**

John straightened, quickly, and replied.

**Why? Where? When? –JW**

Sherlock was watching John, concerned the whole time.

"John? Why… that's Mycroft, right? What does he want?"

John frowned.

"Just to talk. He's downstairs. It seems important. I'll go."

Sherlock pulled out his own phone, and texted his brother.

**Timing, Mycroft. Really? –SH**

He frowned.

"Yes, John. If you don't go, he'll come up. Be quick." He pressed a kiss to John's lips.

John grinned.

"Of course."

He made his way downstairs.

Sherlock frowned. _Why on Earth did Mycroft want to talk to John, now of all times?_ Did he honestly just want to irritate Sherlock as much as possible?

Sherlock sat there, his mind everywhere, as he tried to puzzle it out, and not worry.

John came back in, about twenty minutes later, but when he did, he seemed distant, not offering Sherlock a smile.

He immediately sprang to his side.

"John? John, what is it? What's wrong?"

John forced a smile.

"Nothing. It's fine."

Sherlock growled.

"No, it's not. You're clearly upset. What, did you really think you could fool me? _Me?_ No. my bloody brother has said something to bother you. And I'm going to go and talk to him."

John looked at Sherlock.

"Won't do any good. He's gone, anyway. Text him, or whatever. I really don't… I have to go… take a shower."

John made his way into the bathroom, and Sherlock frowned, angry and confused. He ripped his phone out of his pocket.

**What in bloody hell did you **_**do**_**, Mycroft? –SH**

Mycroft's reply was almost instantaneous.

**What I had to do, brother dear. –MH**

Sherlock growled again.

**You know I hate riddle. What did you say to upset John this much? Because I **_**will**_** make you pay for it. –SH**

Sherlock was so angry, he was literally shaking. He took a few deep breaths, trying to rein in his emotions.

**Sherlock, I only told him what he needed to hear. I wanted him to be aware that you are vulnerable emotionally, and that I will track him down and make him pay if he ever hurts you. But that also you may not feel how you think you feel, Sherlock. –MH**

Sherlock resisted the urge to hurl his phone at the wall.

**So you convinced him that I don't love him? Is that it? Because I am telling you, I do. With all my heart. –SH**

He sat there, fuming. What was wrong with his brother today?

**Sherlock… I just don't want you to rush headlong into this. –MH**

**Mycroft. I understand that you acted out of some sort of screwed up concern, but I think you should know that I had enough time thinking I would never have him, and loving him unrequitedly that I am sure of my own feelings. –SH**

Mycroft's reply was short and to the point.

**Then make sure he is sure of his. –MH**

Sherlock shook his head.

**I trust his judgement on how he feels. –SH**

Sherlock put his phone down, and thought for a moment, then picked it back up.

**Greg… I have a question I want to ask. –SH**

He waited awhile for the reply. The shower was still running in the background.

**Sherlock? What is it? –GL**

Sherlock smiled a little. He was rather fond of Lestrade.

**It's about… emotions… to be clearer, a relationship. –SH**

**You want… my opinion? Isn't John like your emotional guru? –GL**

Sherlock laughed softly. If only he knew… he didn't want to say, not without having cleared it with John first. But Greg didn't know how much he valued his opinion, how much he cared, deep down.

**I do value your opinion, you know. But… it's related to my brother. Mycroft has gone and convinced him I don't love him. And now he won't bloody give me a chance to talk to him. And I do love him. A lot. –SH**

He had to wait for a few minutes while Greg replied.

**No, I didn't know. And that sounds a little harsh of Mycroft. Surely he'd do the whole 'Hurt my little brother and you're dead' bit, except with the extra scary from the Government part. –GL**

**Yes. He did that too. But what do I do? He's been being very… distant. Help me, Greg? –SH**

**I knew you wanted something when you called me Greg. Alright. Do something that means he'll have to take notice. I don't know, take him out for dinner, or something. –GL**

Frustrated, Sherlock typed his answer and sent it immediately.

**But we're both stuck in this bloody hotel! –SH**

Then he realised what he'd done. Lestrade knew. Mycroft had told him. He knew who he was in the hotel with.

**Oh. **_**Oh.**_** Well. Order room service or something. –GL**

Sherlock was about to reply, when another message came through, which surprised him.

**I suppose that wasn't intentional. He always liked you, you know. Talked to me about it. A lot. Bet this has made his day. He'll get over it, you've just got to convince him. Just show you're trying, should be enough for him. –GL**

**Really? Hm. Didn't know that. I didn't tell you, though, Greg. I don't want to tell anyone about us, until we discuss it. –SH**

Sherlock heard the shower shut off, and picked up the phone to order their meal, John's favourite; steak and chips, and carbonara for himself.

**Okay, fine. But you are going to come and 'tell me' as soon as possible. I want to congratulate him. And ask him precisely **_**how **_**to deal with a Holmes. –GL**

Sherlock sighed.

**Sure. Will do. See you then. –SH**

**Okay. –GL**

The room service came up, just early enough for Sherlock to lay the table before John came out of the shower. He looked relaxed and his hair was damp. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I ordered room service."

There was even a candle on the table, which reminded him of when they had first met. He hoped it was obvious how hard he was trying to do normal.

John smiled. "It's lovely Sherlock. I guess you spoke to your brother then?"

Sherlock nodded. John took his hand where it rested on the table as he sat down. "I'm sorry about how I acted. He was just… it played on my insecurity, Sherlock. I know that you wouldn't… I know I'm not just the newest toy."

Sherlock smiled, and took a bite of his food, as well as pouring them each a glass of the wine he'd ordered and taking a sip.

Sherlock smiled. "John. I just… I love you, and I don't understand it, but somehow, for some reason, you love me too."

John grinned. "That I do. And there are many reasons. You are impossible, but you are wonderful and amazing, and when you weren't there, my whole world disappeared too. You are everything to me."

**So… sorry it's so short… But I hope you like it anyways. **


	9. An Ending

**I AM SO SO VERY SORRY I KNOW I WIN THE PRIZE FOR MOST AWFUL PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE!**

**Also. I think this is the last chapter. Sorry.**

**Usual disclaimer, etc.**

An Ending

Sherlock grinned at the glow John's words gave him. _You are everything to me._

He inclined his head towards John, and as soon as the two of them finished eating, he grabbed his laptop and began typing furiously.

It took him a while, but eventually his searching of certain databases to find a match for the blurry image he had of John's sniper came through.

He didn't even feel triumphant. He just wanted this to be over.

He beamed at John. "I found him. Sebastian Moran."

John stiffened. "Sebastian Moran?" His tone was incredulous.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "Yes. Do you feel a desperate urge to parrot what I say, or do you know him?"

John took a shaky breath. "If this is the same Sebastian… well, he was in my unit in Afghanistan. I… he shot one of the guys, got sent home for dishonourable discharge, last thing I heard."

Sherlock nodded. "Then yes, that's him. It appears he's since become Moriarty's right hand man and eventual replacement."

He straightened, and pulled out his phone to text Mycroft.

**Sebastian Moran. –SH**

He threw it back on the bed, frowning softly, as he heard the door to the hotel room open and his blood froze.

In walked the man from the video. He had clearly lost weight, and the sallowness of his skin and his hollowed cheeks caused the scar over his eye to stand out more. His hair was a mess, growing too long so his fringe flopped in front of his eyes. He scowled at Sherlock, before smirking at John.

"It's been a while, John."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, there was something oddly hollow about his voice, and he had a feeling he knew what to do if this all went south.

John was chewing on his lip, and Sherlock could see that part of him felt awful for the obviously broken man in front of him. Sherlock came to a decision and cut in before his doctor could speak.

"Sebastian. You must miss him." Sebastian's eyes darkened and he turned his attentions to Sherlock even as he continued. "In fact, I'm willing to bet that you know what John means to me, and that's why you're after him, and not me. You wish to take from me what you feel I have taken from you. You want to emotionally destroy me, and watch me suffer, before you eventually finish his job, and kill me too."

Sebastian inclined his head. "You're right. Just like him." He smiled coldly. "And I'll do it. He's dead because of you. He never loved me, because of you. So I will strip you of everything you hold dear, before I kill you."

Sherlock's eyes tightened slightly. "Then you should know what I mean when I say that I'll do anything to keep him safe."

Sebastian shrugged, and pulled out a pistol, just as another figure walked into the hotel room, and addressed them all with a soft Irish lilt.

"You should really tighten up your security. Sebby dear, put your gun down."

Sherlock froze, and he could see the same look of confusion on John's face.

Jim Moriarty stood in the doorway. Sebastian's pistol clattered to the floor, and he looked over at him, eyes shining, but his fists clenched at his sides.

"You bastard. I should've known. Have fun watching me plan my own suicide, did you?"

Jim's eyes skittered over him, and settled dispassionately on Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes. Good to see you alive."

Sherlock saw Sebastian shift angrily, and he inclined his head at Jim. "Likewise. I highly doubt it, but would you consider giving this up? This has gone far too far as it is, and I really rather not _actually_ die this time."

Jim looked over at Sebastian, and then at John. "I see you've found something better than our game." He paused, and then took a step closer to Sebastian, so he was dwarfed by the other man, and put a hand on his arm. "I share those sentiments. So, if you would kindly let us, me and Sebastian are going to leave the country." He smiled softly at the other man. "Set up that business in Paris we always talked about?"

Sherlock sucked in a shocked breath, and turned to John. "I know this isn't perfect. But it's over now. I have you, and that's what matters now."

And as they let the criminal and his sniper walk free, Sherlock felt no regret. He was too busy kissing the love of his life.

**That's it guys. I love Sebby and Jim too much to not give them all a happy ending. Maybe one day I'll write something sad, but I love my babies too much to hurt them! I hope you liked.**


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